


Learning

by ProseApothecary



Category: Crashing (UK TV)
Genre: Fluff, High School AU, M/M, Strangers to Lovers, TW: drugs and alcohol, Tutoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24322417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProseApothecary/pseuds/ProseApothecary
Summary: Fred is sticking the chocolate in his bag when he feels something hit his temple. A paper ball lands on the table in front of himHe turns around and sees Sam wave at him.He’s never talked to Sam. Doesn’t really know a thing about him, except that his hair is spiked up in a way most kids seemed to stop doing in second grade, and he seems to be in a state of permanent distraction.And, judging from the missile, he doesn’t like Fred.Fred turns back to his work, only for a second paper ball to hit him, and a third.He turns back to Sam with a pleading expression, completely at a loss for what else to do.And Sam mouths, “Open it.”Oh.
Relationships: Fred Patini/Sam, Sam & Kate & Fred
Comments: 12
Kudos: 85





	Learning

“Let’s revise some of the things we went over last year,” Mrs Hutchinson says, long nails tapping on her desk. “I’m going to be uncharacteristically optimistic and assume that at least one of you can give me the name of _someone_ who contributed to the germ theory of disease.”

There’s a good 30 seconds of silence.

Fred has an answer.

He also has a new year’s resolution, as the only Indian kid in class, not to make himself any more noticeable than necessary.

Mrs Hutchinson has other ideas.

“Fred?” she asks hopefully.

“Um. Louis Pasteur?”

“Good job,” Mrs Hutchinson says, tossing a chocolate bar to him.

At least 5 more hands go up.

“Oh,” she says. “ _Now_ everyone’s got contributions.”

Fred is sticking the chocolate in his bag when he feels something hit his temple. A paper ball lands on the table in front of him

He turns around and sees Sam wave at him.

He’s never talked to Sam. Doesn’t really know a thing about him, except that his hair is spiked up in a way most kids seemed to stop doing in second grade, and he seems to be in a state of permanent distraction.

And, judging from the missile, he doesn’t like Fred.

Fred turns back to his work, only for a second paper ball to hit him, and a third.

He turns back to Sam with a pleading expression, completely at a loss for what else to do.

And Sam mouths, “Open it.”

 _Oh_.

Fred opens one of the papers, which reads _Tutor me?_

Fred has no idea why this conversation had to happen via trash discus.

But Sam is looking at him questioningly, so he nods. Sam gives him a grin and a thumbs up in return.

Sam catches him as soon as he leaves class. “So,” he starts, mid-thought, as if this isn’t the first conversation they’ve ever actually had. “What’s your rate?”

“Oh,” says Fred, who, to be honest, is just glad to find out he’s not being bullied, “Don’t worry about it.”

“Doesn’t have to be money. Could be something else you need. Personal training. Fashion tips.”

Fred’s mother impressed upon him that politeness and honesty were key, but there were many moments when it proved difficult to reconcile the two.

“I’m sensing you like the fashion advice idea,” Sam interjects helpfully.

“Sure,” says Fred.

“Here’s a freebie,” Sam says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Hair gel is very affordable.”

They exchange details, and Fred starts wondering what, exactly is involved in tutoring.

Fred, having googled “tutoring etiquette”, has set out a textbook and a selection of snacks, pens and pencils on his desk, despite the fact that they keep trying to roll off.

Sam shows up 5 minutes late. As soon as Fred shows him into his room, he looks at the desk and the two chairs next to it, with growing distrust.

“…How are we going to fit my homework on that?”

“Oh.” says Fred, realising that he may have a point. He may have gotten too many snacks. “Sorry. Uh. I think the only other option is the bed?”

“Tryna get me into bed already?” Sam asks, but by the time Fred looks up to protest, he’s already sitting on it, cross-legged.

He looks around Fred’s room, and asks, “Do you want to watch a movie?”

Fred blinks. He hadn’t prepared for this eventuality. “Um. Maybe we should do a little bit of biology first?”

He brings the supplies over, and sits facing Sam. “So. We need to think of some examples of evolutionary adaptation,” Fred starts.

Sam looks a little sleepy already. Fred tries to think of an interesting example.

“Like sloths turning their heads almost the whole way round.”

Sam shudders. “Like they’ve been possessed?”

Fred feels a little defensive of the sloths. He tries to think of a more pleasant fact.

“Swimming. That’s another one of their adaptations, in case it floods. The babies even have swimming lessons. They’re much faster in the water than on land. Although, at first, obviously, they spend most of their time just clinging to their mothers…” he trails off, seeing Sam look increasingly amused.

“Um. I might be getting a little sidetracked. Sloths aren’t really on the syllabus.” He flicks through the textbook.

“You’re kidding,” Sam says. “Learning about transpiration is mandatory, but no one was going to teach me that I might meet a baby sloth in the Lake District?”

“Wrong country,” says Fred, biting down a smile. “And how often do you go swimming in lakes?”

“I could go swimming in lakes,” Sam says defensively. “You don’t know. I might be Bear Grylls on the weekends.”

Fred can’t keep biting down on his incredulous smile. It spreads across his face in record time, which, of course, makes Sam frown and try to tickle him. Fred leans back to avoid it and before he’s 100% clear on what’s happened, he’s flat on his back with Sam’s legs around his waist.

“This is how you trap baby sloths.” Sam says.

“On your Bear Grylls weekends? In the Lake District?” Fred hopes he can talk enough to distract his body from actually registering anything that’s happening, but his voice is already quiet and quaky and honestly he should probably just give up on having friends and become a hermit in the woods where boys with nice smiles don’t touch him.

“On my Bear Grylls weekends.” Sam confirms, then frowns. “Sloths are less wriggly.”

“Sloths don’t have to teach you three more dot points today.”

Sam lets out this little laugh of disbelief. Fred can feel him shake. He wants to hold him still, except that would make everything so, so much worse.

“You might be the nerdiest person on earth. Like, the lovechild of Stephen Hawking and a supercomputer.”

“Uh-huh.” Fred’s getting an idea of where this might be going. “As opposed to you, who is…Tarzan, or Bear Grylls, or whatever you’re fishing for.”

Sam grins. “You’re lucky I’m merciful.”

He lays a hand on Fred’s chest to lift himself off and Fred is very certain that merciful is the last thing he is.

Since tutoring started, Fred’s started noticing that he’s in a lot of Sam’s classes. Sam’s noticed too, judging from the way he’s started sticking to Fred’s side.

Fred doesn’t really mind.

Except when it comes to Phys Ed.

Fred has a very specific idea of locker room etiquette. It involves staring at the floor from the moment he enters until the moment he leaves, trying not to bump into anyone or put his shirt on backwards in the process.

Sam, evidently, has a very different ideal of locker room etiquette. One that involves having a direct conversation with Fred while struggling to pull off his skinny jeans.

“I noticed,” Sam says, “that you haven’t really been keeping up with the fashion tips.”

Sam’s last fashion tip had involved sending him a link to a $300 shirt.

“Yes. Well-”

“It’s fine,” Sam interrupts. “You dress like a grandfather, but it works for you.”

“Oh. Thanks?”

“But I thought of something else I can offer.”

“You really don’t have to-”

“Coverage. Any flying missiles come your way during any P.E. lessons in the foreseeable future, I got your back. Unless you can think of something else?”

“No,” says Fred, grateful to the universe. “That’s perfect. Thank you.”

Sam smiles, manages to finally yank off his jeans. Fred tries not to notice that he’s wearing briefs, but they’re very bright, and _very_ garish. Magic Eye underwear, basically.

Sam looks at Fred, still fully-clothed. “…You planning on getting changed?”

Fred was kind of hoping Sam would’ve left by this point.

He turns away a little as he slips into his gym gear.

“7 seconds,” Sam says. “Must be some kind of record.”

“Ok,” says Fred, feeling his neck flush. “Let’s go.”

Sam is very effective at covering Fred. He’s barely aware he’s part of a game.

Until about ten minutes in, when Sam barrels for the ball, and ends up barrelling Fred over instead.

“Sorry,” Sam says, planting a hand on the ground somewhere next to Fred’s face. “Wasn’t paying attention.”

“It’s fine,” says Fred, then repeats it, with syllables this time. Sam smells like hair product.

“Course it is,” Sam says with a wink as he stands up, “probably your average Saturday night.”

Fred’s average Saturday nights involve Buffy and icecream. He doesn’t say that.

Instead, he takes the hand Sam offers, and gets back up.

Biology is next. Sam’s taken to sitting next to Fred, greatly reducing his ability to learn enough to teach it.

“Fred. Fred. _Fred_.” he hears, as he tries to focus on spelling _deoxyribose_.

“Sam. At least one of us needs to be paying attention in class if I’m going to teach it to you later.”

“But it’s about the tutoring.”

Fred turns towards him.

“You need to buy better snacks.”

“O _kay_.” Fred says, looking back at the front.

“I can give you a list of recommendations,” Sam says, while Fred steadfastly ignores him.

Then Sam’s hand is on his, turning it over, and writing snack recommendations on his palm, and it’s more and more difficult to focus on punnet squares.

“You’re still going?” Fred asks disbelievingly, five minutes later.

“I’m drawing pictures,” Sam says, “just in case you’ve never seen a Wotsit before.”

“If only you were this dedicated to Biology.”

“That’s what I have you for,” Sam says, grinning up at him.

Fred starts the lesson that afternoon with “DNA,” and promptly runs out of things to say.

Sam smiles. “The suspense is killing me.”

“Ok,” says Fred, “so someone may have been distracting me.”

“Lucky for you, I _was_ paying attention.”

“Really?” asks Fred disbelievingly, “well, they say the best way to learn is to teach someone else...”

“Double helixes of 2 base pairs. Adenine and Thymine and Guanine and…Codeine.”

“That last one does not sound right. But, pretty good.”

“Turns out drawing helps me focus.”

“Huh,” says Fred, finding himself smiling for Sam. “That’s great. Though maybe you can draw on paper sometimes? For one thing, I have clarinet lessons on Thursday,” he says, holding up his hand.

“You’re welcome,” Sam says, which Fred is just going to take as acquiescence.

They spend the rest of the afternoon eating Wotsits and watching Lady and the Tramp while Fred tries not to think about a day when Sam doesn’t need this anymore. When he’s no longer listing off answers with that look on his face, a fragile pride, starkly different to his usual bravado. A pride that needs Fred to be proud of him too.

“I’m having some people over tomorrow,” Sam says as he’s packing up to go. “You should come along. If you’re not too busy daydreaming about sloths.”

He’s not sure if Sam’s just inviting him out of pity, but he’s also not going to turn down his first high school party invite.

“I’ll be there.”

He forgets to arrive fashionably late, but he does get lost on the way, so it sort of works itself out. Knocking gets no result, so he tries the door, _unlocked_.

The house is packed.

He makes his way into the living room, hoping for some space, only to see circle of people seated on the floor, vodka bottle between them. _Spin the bottle_. His cue to leave, except-the bottle is pointing at Sam.

Sam doesn’t see him. He’s cocking his head at a girl across the circle. “Are you _absolutely_ sure you’re ready for this jelly?”

The girl snorts and turns to the boy next to her. “Anthony, catch me if I swoon.”

Sam grins and crawls over to her, drawing her into a long kiss.

It’s very Disney-prince-esque. Fred feels a little sick.

He starts making his way back towards the door, squeezing between crowds. He can pretend he never came. Too busy with studying and-

A hand lands on the wall next to him, and he realises he’s trapped. He looks up to see Sam smiling at him. “Looking for me?”

“Uh. Yes.”

“Do you want a drink? Cosmo? Appletini? Peach Fuzz?”

“…I know you’re joking, but if you actually have Cosmos….”

Sam grins and claps a hand on his shoulder. “Apple juice and vodka it is.”

He returns with a half-full bottle of cloudy vodka.

“…I really don’t need this much.”

Sam takes a swig and hands it to Fred. “We can share.”

Fred takes a sip, the lip of the bottle still warm.

Sam takes his phone from his pocket. “What should we queue up next? Belinda Carlisle? Rick Astley? Cyndi Lauper?”

“That’s too much responsibility.”

“It’s resting on you, Fred. The fate of our playlist.”

“What were the options again?”

“No time to go through them all. There’s seconds until the song ends. There’ll just be dead silence.”

“God. Um? Rick Astley?”

Sam presses a button and _Never Gonna Give You Up_ starts playing through the speakers. There’s a smattering of groans throughout the room.

A pretty girl with a bob starts making her way towards them. “Hi Sam. _So_ glad you’re rickrolling people at the event _I_ helped you organise.”

“It’s Fred’s fault.”

“Hi,” says Fred. “Sorry.”

She schools her expression back into a smile. “Sam? Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Fred, this is Kate. She hates fun even more than you do. You’re going to get on great.”

“Nice to meet you,” Kate says, holding her hand out to shake. “I don’t hate fun.”

“Oh. Um. Me neither.”

“Really? Because neither of you let me go to that secret speakeasy on the corner.”

“We went through this,” Fred says, “it’s a crack den.”

Kate smiles. “I’m glad someone else is keeping him from constant imminent death.”

Fred smiles back.

“I did actually manage to live through 18 years without either of you.” Sam interjects.

“Your mother must have been on guard _constantly_ ,” says Fred.

Kate turns to Fred. “One responsible adult to another, can I add you on LinkedIn?”

“Oh my God,” says Sam. “I’m getting some food.”

Sam returns with a mini waffle on a bed of chips and jelly beans.

“Can I?”

Sam holds the bowl away from Fred, glancing between him and Kate. “No. Traitors don’t get food.”

Fred puts on his most innocent face. “Right. It’s just that I’ve barely eaten all day. I’m feeling kinda lightheaded…”

Sam frowns but holds the bowl out for Fred to take a few. “This is gaslighting. I’m being gaslighted…Gaslit? I’m being gaslit.”

Kate reaches over and Sam snatches the bowl away again. “Uh-uh. I know you’re not going to have a hypo.”

“Fred?” Kate asks innocently, “can I have one of your chips?”

“Of course,” says Fred, passing a handful of chips to her.

Sam narrows his eyes, gets out his phone and says, loudly, “Fred, I can’t believe you’re _demanding_ I play _Baby Shark_ on repeat.”

Kate watches a group of people leave as the sounds of _Baby Shark_ fill the air. “So glad I spent 2 hours curating a playlist for this party.”

“Ok,” says Fred. “Truce.”

“You can’t declare a truce after I won.”

“Did you?” asks Fred. “I’m holding the vodka.”

Ten seconds later, Sam emerges victorious from the ensuing tickle battle.

“ _Please_ mind the glassware.” Kate says.

Sam hands her the vodka. “You need this more than I do.”

Kate takes a sip and hands it back. “Sobriety is integral to party planning.”

Fred’s the last person there. He should probably go now if he wants to get home in time for curfew, but he’s a little worried about the amount Sam has had to drink.

Especially when Sam gets a wine bottle from the cupboard and brings it to Fred, sitting on the couch.

“We should play a drinking game.”

“...You should have some water.”

Sam huffs a laugh and sits next to Fred. “Worried I’ll make bad choices? Have you seen me sober?”

Fred’s saved from having to answer that by Sam’s head dropping against his shoulder. Fred assumes he’s asleep, until his head pops up again. “We should go somewhere.”

“…I don’t know-”

“Drinking game?” Sam asks. “Or going out?”

And with that, the decision is made.

“I really don’t think this is a good idea,” Fred says as Sam clambers over the school gate.

“I’ll help you over,” Sam says, extending a hand. He’s sobered up noticeably, but apparently it hasn’t diminished his commitment to breaking into the school.

_Only young once, right?_

Fred takes his hand, and clambers over the fence, barely avoiding injury.

“We did it,” Fred says. “Let’s go home now.”

Sam scoffs, and starts walking. Fred follows him to the sports shed.

“Normally, I just climb up the pillars,” Sam says, but uh…” He looks Fred up and down, and ducks inside the shed, dragging a ladder out.

Fred eyes the roof of the rickety shed dubiously. “…Up there?”

“C’mon Treacle,” Sam says, and starts climbing.

Fred, reasonably sure that Sam is, if reckless, at least sober, calls out to him. “I think I’m gonna head home.”

Sam hangs his head over the edge of the roof, giving Fred a mini heart attack in the process.

“Please? 5 minutes.”

“5 minutes,” Fred says, tentatively moving one foot to the bottom rung of the ladder. “Then we leave.”

It’s actually kind of beautiful. Night sky above, empty oval below. It feels a little like being sandwiched between infinities.

Until Sam asks, “Have you ever been kissed?” and all of Fred’s attention narrows to one tiny spot on the roof.

“Have you?” Fred asks, even though he knows the answer.

Sam huffs a laugh, taking it as a no.

“That could be our deal. You teach me biology. I teach you _biology_.”

Fred rolls his eyes, but when he looks at Sam, the bluster is thin, something tentative underneath.

Fred wants this, he does, but he already knows who he is, and this isn’t going to change any of that.

Sam, on the other hand, has the kind of expression teachers probably wish he had in class. Bright-eyed, curious. Ready to learn.

“Ok,” Fred says. “Teach me.”


End file.
